


fever dream

by polythene (orphan_account)



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, a character study if you will, angsty, dissociation nonsense, not really focused on the relationship aspect, stream of consciousness kinda, third person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 15:05:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13929579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/polythene
Summary: The hills are glowing purple. You climb to the top of a thousand foot wave and ride it down into the sweat and grime of your unmade bed, sinking deeper into the navy blue ache. The net over reality grows ever thicker.tl;dr - Shane's really out of it.





	fever dream

**Author's Note:**

> tw / dissociation and like super vague nonsense
> 
> uh so i wrote this at four in the morning and i would like to apologise in advance for the fact it will likely make no sense. the top of the summary and the inspiration for this comes from [this post](http://feverdreamsuggestion.tumblr.com/post/171586205711/the-hills-are-glowing-purple-you-climb-to-the-top) on the [feverdreamsuggestion](http://feverdreamsuggestion.tumblr.com/) tumblr page,, cool.

     Shane hadn’t really slept, wasn’t sure what sleep meant anymore but damn did his eyes burn. Like claws digging into his corneas, the fires of hell stinging retinas every time he blinked or moved or breathed. Why did breathing hurt? Every time he laid his head down to welcome an escape his brain began working, not well enough to make him work but enough that sleep wouldn’t. It would never happen again. It would evade him like ghosts and demons and angels. He was floating aimlessly through something that seemed dreamlike, hands both cold and warm touching, grabbing, caressing alarms.

     Loud and painfully distracting, seemingly impossible to turn off no matter how many times he hit snooze. Beeping, breathing, with glowing purple hills nestled beneath brown irises. He didn’t see himself when he looked in the mirror. Those close to him asked if he was alright when they walked passed seeing him staring blankly at a computer monitor that wasn’t turned on. He was staring at his reflection, they thought, he thinks. Not really sure.

     “Are you alright?”

     “Not sure.” Not sure, how can’t you be sure? Let us get you help, let us help you.

     His hands would move lethargically upward, then down despite the fog clogging his brain and his inability to be certain the hand moving was his own. Dismissive. Reality felt thick and viscous like he was trudging through molasses at all times. Trudging through that molasses and breathing in water and suddenly his computer screen is blurring in front of him again-- he realises how close he leaned forward. The pixels embedded into the screen glow in red and green and blue, mocking him with their vibrancy. He throws back two more Advil and time suddenly seems to stop working.

     Suddenly it’s 11:30 pm and he doesn’t know why he’s here. He’s climbing a wave, it towers over him in all menacing darkness and sea-foam ripping through like gashes in the creature’s soft underbelly. Shane thinks, for a moment, that it may haunt him like everything everyone else fears but not him. Why is he afraid now as he tangles in his sheets, having ridden down into the familiar sweat and grime? The navy blue effectively swallows him whole and he doesn’t know if it’s sunlight or lamplight or a meteor shower reflecting on the rapid moving tsunami of blue that might drown him if he doesn’t hold his breath. The ocean is unstoppable in its conquests, the molasses thickens. There’s a sharp ache in his lungs and he remembers to breathe, there’s a dull ache in his head and getting up sounds like something he could do but can’t do but won’t do--

     “I don’t know if he can or can’t or won’t… I’ve tried talking to him but he’s not there-- like, okay obviously he’s there but not really.” Shane blinks blearily up as arms pull navy down, a ceiling fan sends ice raining down on the sweat-dampened skin and still the walls melt around him. Her voice is sweet like honey and he calls her honey and she says so back and he drifts further away as if his brain can’t handle the situation. He can’t get his eyes open wide enough no matter how hard he tries and the strange vignette around his vision is nauseating. This single situation.

     He feels a bit more present when the warm hand is on his warm forehead and the cold one is holding his neck up and water trickles down into his stomach, gurgling, pangs. He disappears again when they leave. He’s not sure how many days it’s been since he left his ocean grave of navy. He wonders what his epitaph ended up reading.

     It’s 10:00 am again and Ryan just set a coffee down. In a mug. A Tuesday mug, it’s Tuesday.

     Tuesday. Shane dates an email Thursday. What composes a day?

     His phone says it’s 5:30 pm, it’s been thirty minutes since he got home. The television screen seems a little too big and his head feels too light on his shoulders.

     Shane hadn’t really slept, wasn’t sure what sleep meant anymore but damn was he tired. Every time he laid his head down to welcome an escape his brain began working, not well enough to make him work but enough that sleep wouldn’t.

     “Hey, man, you’ve been out of it all day… everything alright?” Ryan’s arm is moving passed Shane’s torso to hand Sara a mug and then places one in his hands too.

     “Just tired.” Gone, too. Gone. Gone. Gone to vibrant purples and navy blues and molasses themed gravity that made his legs turn to jelly. “It’ll be fine tomorrow.”


End file.
